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Roman Holiday

This summer, while my husband and I visited Rome, we spent one memorable evening on the terrace of the Hotel Eden enjoying the most romantic view of the Eternal City’s many cupolas, domes and steeples. It was a warm, enchanting night encouraged by some Italian red, a little too much world famous pasta, and the acquaintance of the couple at the next table. The Roman and his Neapolitan wife, one more beautiful than the other, had encouraged our conversation as they were practicing their English for their upcoming tour of America.

“You must write this for me!” the raven haired beauty insisted, “write me where I go in America.”

“When you are going?” I asked, suddenly favoring the Italian accent.

“September!” she answered, excitedly.

“And how long will you stay?”

“One months,” she corrected herself, “one month.”

How do you limit a tour of the unlimited sights of America to a few short weeks?

My husband and I mapped out an itinerary for the couple. It was difficult to limit the list to only the highlights of America as we tried to imagine what would be essential must-sees to a foreigner making one grand tour of a lifetime. Considering it was their first visit, and sizing them up to be quite cosmopolitan, we sorted through all the places we supposed they would thrill and marvel at in our country.

“Start in New York City, by all means,” we insisted. “You must fly into the country via the Statue of Liberty and see the grandest city in the world to begin your tour.”

From there we suggested going up the coast to Boston, as an Italian must see the American version of Little Italy, just to tell the folks back home that our pizza is really okay. Then to Florida – honestly, Disney World here is not EuroDisney. Since it would be in September, we recommended they stop somewhere in the Midwest in a delightful small town or two to see the leaves changing color. If they could manage it, we encouraged them to go to Sedona in Arizona or Four Corners in Utah to see the sort of landscape that is never seen anywhere in Europe. Would the Rockies be so much different from the Alps? We decided no, for this September trip, and urged them on to Las Vegas, for it is truly “like no place else in the world.”

For some West Coast culture, we suggested San Diego and LA. Then they were to head up the coast to Oregon or Seattle, ending the trip in Vancouver, Canada. Although it’s not strictly America, we personally love to see Vancouver and figured if you are coming all the way from Italy, the trip to Victoria on Vancouver Island would make up for missing the US Rockies.

They examined our list and made a point in broken English that they wanted to see the real America. We assured them all these sights were really America. But how would we ensure them they would get the flavor of the real America and all it’s diversity and breadth?

We told them that even those who live the staid and stable life of our small towns and ranches are heavily influenced by these sights; the glitz of Vegas and wonder of Disney World, the fashion of LA, and theater and culture of NYC. It is through our movie industry, our celebrities, our politics, our glamour, our fast life, our ethnicity and diversity, our work ethic, our entrepreneur spirit – the hum of American industry and capitalism – that we are all connected as these elements weave through our lives, binding us together regardless of our location or station. So to know America, one must see these anchors of our identity first so as to get to know us personally later.

“And to know Americans?” they asked.

“You know us!” we reminded them, “You know we are helpful, friendly, interested, curious. We are silly and brash. Our myths and legends are told on the silver screen, our politics broadcast to all corners of the world. We are constantly amazed how much you in Europe know of us in America, at least our celebrity and politics. But we are everyday people, just as the strollers and shoppers and shopkeepers and guides of Rome are everyday people. To us they seem like extras on a movie set! For who could imagine living in this open air museum of a place! Though we are talking to you now in this Eternal City, as it is seeped in a grand history of epic proportions, with its collections of art and architecture, ancient wonders of the world, beyond what an American can even dream or imagine being harbored in his backyard or neighborhood, still, without reminding ourselves of where we are, we could be home on our Texas patio drinking Margaritas instead of Barolo! And you will see this in America, as you see it here. You will see the skylines of our cities and wonder if it’s real. You will drive up and down the strip of Vegas and think you are dreaming. Then, you will then know your city better than you ever have once you have seen ours.”

It wasn’t until recently that I recalled meeting this couple and our exciting conversation. In light of what’s happened since then, I wondered how our Italian friends had fared in their visit. I wondered if their September 10^th visit to the Big Apple actually happened. I wondered if they had been rerouted, detoured, detained. I wondered if they were in the vicinity of the World Trade Center when the disaster struck, or if they had decided after all to start their visit in Vancouver and work back the other direction, which is what I hope for their sake.

I felt a sudden shudder of guilt at even having directed them to that unknown danger none of us knew was lurking.

I wonder if they were stranded, like so many visitors from abroad, in some small town gymnasium. I wonder if their first encounter with the real America was something like the experience of those rerouted folks who were given everything from tooth brushes to bedding, food and hair brushes by the locals in order to make them feel comfortable. I wonder if they saw the outpouring of goodwill, the astounding sense of unity that the devastating events of September 11 brought out in all Americans.

I wonder if they understood that all the people were standing in lines to donate blood, that the banners and flags flying everywhere were symbols of our resolve, that the Red Cross’ plea was met with overwhelming financial contributions and resources; that all over America in that time of crisis and pain, “breathes there a man with soul so dead, who never to himself has said, ‘this is my home, my native land, this is my native land.’? This is my country, strongest on earth. I pledge thee my allegiance, America, my home! For this is my country, to have and to hold.”**

If so, they would have thought Americans as fervent as their soccer fans in their love of their team.

I hope the young Italians had a safe and satisfying journey, although I’m quite certain it could not have been the trip they had envisioned, coming to America at a time when America was not herself. Then again, if they were here at the time of the attacks, they were made privy to something more remarkable than any of the landmarks and cities I had outlined for their journey. They would have had the unique opportunity to see the real America, all right. As we all did. As if for the first time.

**My mother used to sing that song in her barbershop chorus. It used to bring tears to my eyes even as other songs of patriotism rarely did. I didn’t want to admit it back in the sixties when she sang it. I didn’t understand it fully, couldn’t really grasp the American adult’s deep sense of patriotism. Back then, it simply represented home and my mother and because she lived in America, that was home enough for me.

Now, that I’ve grown and traveled and seen so much, I have long been one to first admit that there is no country like this America. Though many countries have their charms and their glories and I wouldn’t want any one to be absent from this world, this, my country, is the best there is for me and mine. And those lyrics, though I hadn’t thought of them in years, run through my head daily now.